


Ny-Ålesund

by AuralQueer



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Do Not Archive (The Magnus Archives), F/F, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 07:45:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19168858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuralQueer/pseuds/AuralQueer
Summary: Bad Things Happen Bingo Prompt: "Hiding an Injury"The thing about having a broken ankle was that, in Jon’s opinion, no one really needed to know about it. It wasn’t like he spent much of his time running around the Archives. These days, most of what he needed seemed to find its way to his office, and he could hobble the few steps needed to retrieve any particularly awkward tapes. They weren’t going to be going on another field trip any time soon, and there was no one outside of the Institute who particularly cared whether he lived or died (Jon resolutely ignores the voice in the back of his head that quietly insists Georgie would). The point was: a broken ankle wasn’t such a great inconvenience when he spent most of his days sitting down anyway. It would heal, too fast for a doctor to comprehend, and he’d get better and it would just be an unnecessary fuss.





	Ny-Ålesund

The thing about having a broken ankle was that, in Jon’s opinion, no one really needed to know about it. It wasn’t like he spent much of his time running around the Archives. These days, most of what he needed seemed to find its way to his office, and he could hobble the few steps needed to retrieve any particularly awkward tapes. They weren’t going to be going on another field trip any time soon, and there was no one outside of the Institute who particularly cared whether he lived or died (Jon resolutely ignores the voice in the back of his head that quietly insists Georgie would). The point was: a broken ankle wasn’t such a great inconvenience when he spent most of his days sitting down anyway. It would heal, too fast for a doctor to comprehend, and he’d get better and it would just be an unnecessary fuss.

Besides. It would make Basira feel bad.

It was sort of like itching a scab, checking quickly to see where his Assistants were. Jon can see Melanie, tossing knives at a thoroughly shredded print out of Elias’ LinkedIn profile picture in the tunnels. He can sort of make out the iridescent ripple in the corner of his vision that’s Helen, against a backdrop of lemon yellow wood. He doesn’t linger long, moving instead to Daisy, whose bustling about the Archives’ kitchen making two mugs of instant noodles. Basira is sitting at the old wooden table, tapping a biro against the wood and staring into thin air. There are bandages on her hands and arms, and a bruise around her eye. Jon’s chest aches.

He moves, of course, to Martin. Nothing meets him but static, burning like steel wool against his mind until he pulls back with a sigh, leaning on his elbows as he curls into his desk and half imagines he’ll be able to hide from all of this. But of course that movement jerks his ankle, and he hisses between his teeth as pain shoots up his shin and cracks through his nerves. Jon squeezes his eyes shut, and breathes deeply through his nose, and glares at the tape recorder rolling merrily away next to his right elbow.

It clicks off, and Jon relents, leaning back into his chair. He just needs to read a few statements. They’ll make him better, and they might give him something to help smooth over this whole mess. He thinks of Basira: her expression carefully blank as Daisy embraced her. She needs the hope right now.

“Statement of Amelia Beckett, regarding a pantomime that she attended. Statement taken 13 April 2004. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, the Archivist.”

* * *

They’d failed of course. Or, they hadn’t - the world was not yet dead, or chained to a thing that let its followers to believe it was a god. That was a victory. It had just been somewhat pyrrhic, all told: from the pile of bodies they discovered in the warehouse where Rayner planned to execute his worship, to the revelation that Elias had played them all like the chess pieces they seemed to be. Jon would have been more upset, he thinks, about the fact that Basira had been lying to him. But both of them had been too busy getting out of the way of the crossfire between Peter Lukas’ crew on the Tundra and The People’s Church.

Jon remembers it jaggedly: he stumbled out into the deep black of the endless arctic night, and the darkness chased him. At one point Basira grabbed his arm, or he grabbed hers. Snow sank through their clothes, biting cold into their skin, and then there was the thunderous crack of the ice breaking: bigger and deeper than the relentless chattering of the guns. Jon thinks someone is screaming and he thinks he should care except that he knows Daisy will kill him if Basira doesn’t survive this and he’s not sure he’ll forgive himself.

So he keeps running, and the air burns cold into his lungs and creeps into his bloodstream, and overhead there are no stars. Peter’s boat rattles in the water, clattering metal and rigging, and the water slaps up against its sides. Jon doesn’t have the breath to shout to Basira, his boots sinking into the too-deep snow, and he thinks somewhat hysterically that maybe he should start working out if they’re going to make a habit of this.

Basira catches his meaning, and Jon feels it in his mind and in his bones, and he worries about what it means for how deeply she’s become tied to their god. But he doesn’t let himself worry about that: he doesn’t let himself think, feet sinking awkwardly through the grey, glittering snow. Instead he shoves his thought at Basira and hopes somehow it’ll work. They haven’t been noticed yet, and that’s an impossible miracle in itself, but they should assume they will be. He’s given her the knowledge to pilot the thing, he can unmoor it.

And maybe somewhere in Jon’s mind he thinks if Basira is in the cabin she’ll be safer. That if he falls into the water or the clutches of the monsters fighting on the ice then at least the world will have one less monster. That she survived the Unknowing and she can survive the sea and if anyone can find her then Daisy will. But Jon doesn’t let that through. Instead Basira nods and sprints, and she’s far fitter than he’s ever been, and she jumps into the boat and her feet slide on the metal but she catches herself.

On the battlefield that’s been made of the ice outside Rayner’s facility, the tall figure of Peter Lukas suddenly snaps to attention like a hound catching the scent of blood. Basira runs to the cockpit, and Jon gives her the knowledge of the code to the door whilst he starts working desperately at the heavy chains mooring the ship to the ice. Peter Lukas begins to walk through the snow towards them. There are large patches of darkness on the snow, and Jon can’t tell if they’re blood or the Dark and he ignores the part of his mind that itches to find out - that tells him to go back and check.

Instead he pulls at the chains, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the metal through the material of his gloves until he tugs them off with a grunt of frustration, pulling at the stinging cold of the padlock. Behind him, the Tundra’s engine purrs itself awake. For a second Jon can see Basira, can feel the wheel beneath her hands and her heart hammering in her chest and her white cold fury at Elias for betraying her like this. For betraying them.

But then Jon’s back inside his own head and Peter Lukas is walking towards him. “Off so soon Archivist? The party’s only just getting started.” Peter’s voice is catching the attention of his crew now, and several raise their guns. Peter stops them with a gesture, raising his pale hand into the air. He’s wearing a black wool coat and he doesn’t seem to be affected by the cold. A different kind of chill creeps into the air around, less stinging than a deep, mournful ache that wends its way into Jon’s bones as he stands between Peter and his ship.

“Jon!” Basira shouts, and she doesn’t need to say anything else, both of them catch her meaning. Jon nods, and he pushes his thought back at her, and Basira swears and kicks the engine into gear, using the boat to fight against the mooring.

Peter Lukas is a few feet away and Jon doesn’t have much time. He stares back at the boat and the inky water between the ice and the deck and he half thinks that drowning would be easier. But then the metal of the mooring screeches, and the ice splinters with a thunderous crack, and the boat starts to move. Jon doesn’t think, he turns and runs and jumps and in the back of his head he can see Peter’s hand grasping for the back of his coat and not quite making it.

Jon processes everything that happens next at once. He half lands on the deck, ribs bending but not quite breaking as he winds himself on the side of the boat, hands scrabbling for purchase and wrapping around the closest wire of metal rigging he can reach. His legs dangle over the edge of the boat as it moves and then something heavy and metal crashes into his leg and Jon shouts in pain and his vision goes white.

Then he’s falling forwards into the ship and the engine is roaring and the wind howls, icy and bitter overhead until it’s drowned out the hail-storm pattering of bullets against their stern. Jon lies on his back and he stares at the sky until the darkness creeps away.

He weeps when he sees the stars.

They travel all night, and well into the next day. Between them and what maps they can find in the cabin, they make it to a town that isn’t close enough for Peter or Rayner to have followed them, and catch the first flight they can back to London. Jon limps, and tells Basira it’s just a bruise. She’s too dazed to check, and Jon doesn’t blame her. He can feel eyes on him everywhere, especially in the airport, but he doubts that has anything to do with his leg.

They get back to the Institute, and Daisy holds Basira tight enough to tattoo their embrace into her bones, and Jon smiles at her and pretends not to notice the shine in her eyes and limps awkwardly away. Melanie comes to his office to ask what happened. Jon explains, and her jaw is tight but she doesn’t say much else before she leaves.

Jon wants to know where Martin is. He can’t stop thinking of the guns, and the potholes of blood or darkness in the snow. He tries to see, and nothing comes back but static. He bites back a sob and curls his fingers on his desk and wants to punch something.

Instead, he picks up a statement. It’s good to take a break from his mind for a while, and it does something to soothe the pain.

* * *

“It’s healed wrong.” Jon blinks, coming up out of the statement he’d been reading as if surfacing from a swimming pool. He feels his lungs fill and his vision sharpen as the blur of Harry Douglas’ fear, and pain, and grief fades away from his mind. Daisy is standing in the doorway. She’s wearing a white vest and jeans. She looks clean, which is nice: she’d found showering hard for a while after she got back. Something about glass boxes and stifling heat and drowning. She’s been working on it.

Jon smiles. “Daisy.” Then her words sink into his conscious mind, and he frowns. “What? Are you hurt?”

Daisy raises her eyebrows at him. Her lips are pursed and her arms are folded. “Stand up.”

Jon feels his stomach flip, but he does so, still not sure whether he does what he’s told because he’s afraid of her hurting him or because he knows it’ll make her unhappy if he doesn’t. His ankle aches, and he tries to subtly adjust his weight onto his good leg. He makes an effort to keep his voice even when he speaks. “I would like to know what’s going on.”

Daisy stays where she is, leaning against the doorway of his office. “Walk over here. And don’t limp.”

Jon swallows, and puts his hand into his pocket where Daisy won’t see him curling his fingers. Part of him thinks that this is stupid: that he should just come clean and admit what happened. The other part of him thinks about Basira, staring blankly at the wall, pushing down all her guilt and regret, and knows what that feels like. So Jon puts his weight onto his bad ankle and pushes his teeth together and walks across the tiny space of his office to stand in front of Daisy. He’s never been quite so grateful for his terrible working conditions.

Jon stops, and tries to keep standing on his ankle. The ache rocks through his bones like a living thing. Jon raises his chin and falls back on an old mask. “Was there anything else you wanted to waste my time with? Because some of us are actually concerned about the end of the world.”

Daisy snorts and tosses her head. “Lay off, Jon.” This close Jon can see the freckles sprayed across her nose. The bags under her eyes and the chip in one of her canines. (She’d fallen over chasing her cousin, smashed her mouth on the pavement. But she’d caught him, and he’d tumbled too. It had been worth it.) “Why didn’t you tell us?” Daisy’s voice is soft, and Jon is still mildly surprised that she has the capacity to be as gentle as she is, as she always had been somewhere under the thrill of the Hunt. Jon doesn’t want to lie to her.

“Basira has had to deal with enough. She didn’t need to worry about me being injured too. Besides, I heal fast.” Jon pulls up his trouser leg to show Daisy the crooked, knobbly thing that has been rebuilt from the broken bones of his ankle. Daisy hisses in a breath between her teeth, and Jon clears his throat and lets the fabric fall. “Well. It’ll do. I’ve certainly had worse.” He waves with his burned hand, and tries to smile. Daisy looks at him, and her eyes are dark and a little bloodshot.

“You’re going to need a clean break. And painkillers. Probably a brace or something to keep it straight while it heals this time.” Daisy crouches, wrapping her hand around Jon’s leg and pulling up his trouser again to examine the injury. Jon yelps, pulling back, but she’s gentle and she doesn’t touch him more than she needs to. Jon stares down at the top of Daisy’s head, all black and blonde hair dye.

“That’s really not necessary, thank you Daisy. Now if you could please let go, of my leg.” Jon punctuates the words by tugging on his foot and tries to ignore the pain that makes itself known when he does so.

Daisy lets go and stands up, brushing her hands absently on her jeans. The corridor outside Jon’s office is dimly lit and empty, and their voices echo a little as they hit the wood panels of the walls and the linoleum floor. Daisy steps forward, using the inch and a half she has on him to her advantage. “You’ve got a choice Jon. Either you co-operate, or I knock you out and do this the old fashioned way.”

“Is that the old fashioned way?” Jon’s voice is a bit higher than he means it to be, and Daisy’s lips twitch in the direction of a grin before she straightens her expression.

“I’m serious, Sims. I’ve got a mean right hook.” Daisy smells like soap and laundry and Jon has absolutely no doubt that she means what she says.

“You’ve got a terrible bedside manner.” Jon says, and continues before Daisy can reply, “but yes, yes, fine.” He hesitates, and tries to ignore the heat rushing up the back of his neck when he adds a little awkwardly, “Thank you.”

Daisy steps back, and gently punches his arm. “Don’t mention it. Idiot.”

* * *

The operation isn’t terrible, all things considered. It has nothing on getting your rib torn out of your chest, but it isn’t as easy as these things used to be when anaesthetic was still effective on him. Jon isn’t sure whether the fact that he can feel the pain is down to his god wanting him to be awake or just because it enjoys the fear the pain brings with it. Either way, he thinks he’s as desperate as Daisy is once it’s all said and done to see whether he can still get drunk.

Jon’s halfway through his third bottle of vodka when he realises that inebriation might mean losing his grip on what little humanity he has left. He throws up, but he tells the others it’s the drink and the pain and he thinks they believe him. Quietly, privately, he swears to never drink again.

Later, Basira finds him. Jon has his foot propped up and bandaged on a chair and he feels ridiculous and he half wishes Martin would visit (and he tells himself it’s not because he knows how much Martin would fuss, and it’s not because he wants that, and it’s not because he needs someone to give him the concern and affection and kindness that Martin had always volunteered so willingly.) But instead, Basira stands in the door, and Jon gestures for her to come in and take a seat.

“Welcome to the ward.”

Basira smiles a little. Everything about her is tense. Her clothes are dark and practical, and she sits on the edge of her seat, ramrod straight. Her eyes keep flickering to Jon’s foot, and Jon half wants to move it so that it’s not in her line of sight. Except that he thinks they both know that won’t do much of anything, now.

Basira takes a deep breath and folds her hands in her lap. She runs her thumb over her index finger for a moment before she speaks. There’s no sound in the office except for the hum of the lamp, and it’s warmer than it was before. On Jon’s desk is a half drunk cup of tea. “I need to say something.”

Jon’s half tempted to make a joke, but he’s not sure that will help. So instead he sits forward, and gestures, trying not to let too much of his concern creep onto his brow. “Alright.”

Basira takes a deep breath. “I really liked you. You were funny and smart and it was good to work with someone who knew about this shit whose thoughts didn’t jump straight to homicide. I…I really thought we were friends. And then everything got fucked and I hated you. For a while there, I was just - so angry. I felt like you’d lied to me, and it made me feel stupid. I thought you were a monster that had tricked me by pretending to be a person and I swore that I wouldn’t fall for it again.” Basira laughs, and brushes at the scarf wrapped loosely around her head, looking away. “I think I’m so bloody smart. And I messed up. I really, really did. I ignored you, and I ignored Daisy,” Basira’s voice creaks on Daisy’s name, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “The point is that you’re a monster. But I think I am too?” She looks at Jon now, and her brown eyes are bright even in the low light of Jon’s office. “What happened in Ny-Ålesund…I felt you in my head. And I think you think I’ve been avoiding you because I feel guilty, or embarrassed, and yeah, that’s true. But mostly it’s just because I know you’re still in there, Jon, and I’m so fucking sorry for the way I’ve treated you.” Basira swallows, and she’s still sitting up straight, and Jon can’t really concentrate because there’s something hot and painful ringing at the back of his head as he tries to process what she’s saying. “I heard you scream. And I should’ve known. I could’ve known. And I didn’t want to. And I’m sorry.”

Jon leans forward and offers Basira his hand. After a moment, Basira takes it, and her fingers are soft and cool in his. Jon squeezes them, and he looks at her, and for the first time in months Basira meets his eyes. “Thank you, Basira.” Jon’s voice is rough around the edges when he speaks, like freshly pressed paper, soft and fraying. He smiles, and his head hurts and his eyes are hot and that doesn’t matter. Jon clears his throat, and squeezes Basira’s hand one more time before he lets her go. “Now. Shall we save the world?”

Basira laughs, and rubs at her cheek with the back of her hand. “A couple of monsters playing hero?” She grins. “Yeah. Why not?”


End file.
